Nabi Yunus Shrine

With musing step we wend from mound to mound;
Each spot, with mysteries fraught, seems sacred ground.
Here stood that prophet sent by Heaven to call
Doom on each head, and preach the city's fall;
And there he sat, far east from Tigris' stream,
Struck by hot blasts, and fainting in the beam:
On yon peaked hill they show his mouldered grave,
O'er which their funeral boughs no yew-trees wave,
Or flowers in dew — sweet tears of Nature — weep,
Or winds at eve with breath of fragrance sweep.
But Moslem zeal hath reared a temple there;
Strange o'er that desert sounds the call to prayer!
Where sleeps God's prophet, Mecca's triumphs now,
And whispering "Allah!" Ishmael's children bow.*